


Party Games And Goodtime Guys

by Jocondite (jocondite)



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, The Academy Is...
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-05
Updated: 2007-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:39:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jocondite/pseuds/Jocondite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like they set out to throw a party. Gabe kinda likes that thought; screw planning parties, when he's around parties just happen. He doesn't find parties, parties find him, like quicksilver finding true north and Lassie finding little children down wells.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Party Games And Goodtime Guys

It's not like they set out to throw a party. Gabe kinda likes that thought; screw planning parties, when he's around parties just _happen_. He doesn't find parties, parties find him, like quicksilver finding true north and Lassie finding little children down wells. He thinks he should probably write that one down.

So, yeah. It's not like the party is intentional. He just wanders over to The Academy's bus, which is normal, which is like every other day, which is completely and utterly understandable. Ryland – he knows it's Ryland – has done something with the bottle of vodka Gabe had been keeping specially hidden down the back of the couch. He's not sure what, but when he finds out for certain heads are going to roll.

In moments of extremity, it's only natural to turn to one's friends for consolation, for _succor_ , for aid in pursuing his just and righteous vengeance. The fact that his good, good friends in The Academy have the best and most varied stock of alcohol on the tour, in the face of stiff competition, has nothing to do with it.

"Dude," Sisky says, "what the fuck, you can't just –"

"Can," Gabe says, walking through the lounge to the kitchenette and pulling the door of the tiny fridge open. It bristles with bottles. He liberates a bottle of Jack and one of tequila, and he's about to stick a third under his arm when Chiz hits him from behind with a flying tackle. The bottle of Jack goes rolling across the floor into the lounge, where Butcher stops its progress with a well-placed foot, then snatches it up, cradling it to his chest and crooning to it like a baby.

"-ghhrk," Gabe rasps from the floor. "Can't – breathe –"

"Hold him, Chislett," Mike orders. Chiz obeys, his knee digging into the small of Gabe's back. "Secure the drinks."

"No," Gabe pants, trying to curl around the tequila. "No, you can take my freedom, but you'll never take–"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," William says, when Gabe manages to clock Chiz in the chin with a flailing elbow. "Let him keep it, we have plenty."

Butcher growls – actually fucking _growls_ \- over the bottle of Jack. Mike scowls, and takes his own sweet time to nod at Chiz and say "Alright, let him up."

There's dust all over Gabe’s hoodie. This is really fucking not cool. William is watching him, smirking, still lying stretched-out on the couch, one ankle crossed neatly over the other.

"I hate today," Gabe says. He throws himself down beside William – William pulls his legs clear just in time – and sighs.

"Open the fucking tequila already," William says, but he smiles when he says it, kicking Gabe's ankle. "I hope you're not going to be gross."

Gabe takes that as his personal challenge to be gross. He takes a suitably dramatic swig, choking a little, and passes the bottle along. "They're awesome. Full of protein or something. Good for you."

"I can't believe that you eat those," William says, wrinkling his nose fastidiously.

"I'm going to eat it later and I'm totally going to make you watch," Gabe says. He shakes the bottle threateningly. In the bottom of the bottle, the worm shifts around in the sediment.

They sit there, passing the tequila back and forth companionably, while Butcher attends to the Jack, and the others play several brief and bloody games of Halo.

There's a rapping at the door – "You see?" Sisky says, raising an eyebrow. "Some people, some people _knock_ ," – and Gabe is not greatly surprised (not greatly pleased, either, but not surprised) to see Alex ducking his head as he clambers over the threshold. Ryland _would_ send him to mediate, the cunning fucker.

"Tell that viper I nurtured in my own bosom to fuck off," Gabe says easily, before he can open his mouth. "Tell him I hope he gets scabrous crotchrot and that his crotch – get this – _rots off_."

"Nice," William says approvingly, leaning against his shoulder.

From the doorway, there's a flash of white; it takes Gabe a second to realize that it's one of Nate's shirts, being waved like a flag. "Jesus."

"Are we being invaded?" Mike asks, looking up from his controller as Nate and Victoria enter, followed at length by Ryland, looking suitably hangdog and apologetic. "Fuckin' Cobra."

-

"You have the booze," Victoria explains to Sisky, a spider charming a fly. "Of course we were going to take over." She gestures with her cigarette. "It's like, like a magnet. Magnetic."

She has her long legs thrown across Nate's lap, and every now and then, he touches her ankle lightly, a gesture almost lost in the back-and-forth of his argument with Butcher about something to do with percussion, whatever; secret brotherhood of the drummer stuff, Gabe's pretty sure. They probably have a handshake or something.

"I'm totally still pissed," he tells Ryland, who doesn’t even have the decency to open his eyes and look at him, just continues to lie on the floor with his arms and legs slung out starfish-like, Alex's head on his stomach. Ryland fails to answer.

"I'm bored," William says, poking Ryland with his toe.

"Me, too."

Victoria's head swivels around, painted eyes wide. "Me, too."

Sisky looks distinctly crushed.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" William asks the crowded lounge at large, but doesn't wait for anyone to answer. " _Naked pinochle._ "

"..."

"..."

"..."

"William," Mike says, in the weary tone of one well-used to this. "No one was thinking that."

"Oh, I am _now_ ," Gabe assures him, and Ryland nods vigorously from the floor. Ryland may be a filthy, vodka-stealing snake, but he has Gabe's back when Gabe needs him.

-

It's not really a party and it's not even pinochle; it's a half-assed attempt at strip poker. It's hard to be enthusiastic when everyone present has already seen Butcher's ass. All in all, there is much more drinking than stripping taking place, and Victoria has yet to lose more than an earring.

"She cheats," Mike insists. "She _must_."

A cheer goes up, though, when Chiz loses his pants, and that's when the bus door swings open.

"You fuckers," Pete says, looking bright- and wild-eyed. "You absolute _fuckers_ , what the hell is this, are you actually having a party without me?"

There's a perceptible hush, a slowing and stopping of conversation. Gabe can practically hear the tiny carbonated bubbles in his rum and coke rising to the surface with a soft fizz. Ryland's eyes pop, fish-like, in their sockets.

"Pete," he says, sweeping his arm out in a broad, aimless gesture, "Pete, my man."

"Of course we weren't," William says, smiling easily; Pete continues to glower (Gabe can't tell whether he's genuinely put out or faking), and William's smile droops and withers. "No, we were just –

"I don't think it's a party," Alex offers. "It's too small, too… intimate. Maybe we could call it a soiree?"

"Alex," Gabe says ( _soiree_ , christ)."Don't help."

Pete's gaze travels around the room; across Sisky, staring at Victoria's cleavage like it's a vision of the Holy Land, across Nate, shirtless and giggling helplessly, Butcher's arm slung bright and casual around his shoulders; at William, his long legs hooked over Alex's shins and his head resting sloppy-casual against Gabe's thigh.

"Assholes," Pete says. "Deal me in."

-

"Sisky is naked," William whispers into his ear. "Why is Sisky naked? I can't look. It's wrong, it's just – it's wrong. He's like my own little brother. I think I'm scarred for life." He whimpers piteously. "For life."

"Sisky is naked because Vicky's a card shark," Gabe says, patting his shoulder. "...I taught her well."

"For fuck's sake, Sisky, put that away," Mike scolds. "Nobody wants to see that."

"Oh, I beg to differ – _ow,_ " Pete adds, as William recovers himself enough to reach over and slap the back of is head. "What? _What_? I was joking. And you know you were all thinking it."

-

They stop playing strip poker shortly thereafter. William's started covering his eyes with both hands and rocking back and forth; Gabe's actually not sure how much of that is booze and sheer dramatics - he's guessing ninety, maybe ninety-five per cent drama, but it's William, so who the fuck even knows.

Sisky is at length persuaded to resume his clothing, even though Butcher selflessly offers to go nudist in solidarity ("Yes!" "No!" "Look, if he wants to –" "No, no, no, _no-_ ").

Gabe amuses himself by rubbing William's back soothingly and petting his hair. He's totally a giver, a kind, generous, loving friend; selfless, even, because he's never gotten so much as a blowjob for his pains, if you don't count Mexico, which Gabe doesn't, because everyone knows that the shit you do in Mexico doesn't count, and also, a lot of peyote might have been involved.

By peyote really he just means hash, but peyote is a lot more fun to say.

"No, but seriously," Butcher says. "Seriously, I think you all need to let your skin breathe. For your health."

"I agree," Pete says. "Take your pants off again, young Siska."

William looks green. "He's _three_ , you sick fucks. Practically an amoeba."

Ryland raises his eyebrows. "If Sisky's an amoeba, Nate's a fetus, and that didn't stop you sitting in his lap last week, you shameless, shameless hussy."

"Hussy?" William asks, voice rising. " _Hussy?_ "

"You know it, shut up and take it like a man."

"William," Pete says. "Bill, light of my life, get your skinny ass over here."

Hey. "Hey."

William flutters his eyelashes, and Gabe already knows where this is going. The room goes quiet; everyone knows that William and Pete (and Gabe; Gabe can take those motherfuckers any day, and he caught Pete out yesterday, fair and square) are past masters at this.

"Pete," William says breathily, shaking off Gabe's hand and crawling over towards him.

"Bill," Pete says. He strokes William's face tenderly with two trembling fingers. "Get in my lap."

William crawls in, winding his long arms around Pete's neck. Gabe's honestly kind of impressed. "Hi," he says huskily, rubbing his nose against Pete's.

"Baby, come here," Pete says, and leans in closer and closer and incrementally slow.

" _Baby_ ," William echoes, closing his eyes; his hand slides down and down and down. Pete jerks back like he's been scalded, before their mouths can meet, and William spills out of his lap, laughing. He sounds almost like he's going to choke.

"Chicken," he manages to splutter out, "chick, chick, _chicken_ ," and wraps his arms around himself, rolling a little on the floor.

Ryland starts up a clucking chorus, and the bus is briefly filled with farm-like cacophony, Mike's voice rising over the rest, crowing.

"Fuck you," Pete says. "I was into it, but he stuck his hand down my pants, that's got to be cheating." He sounds like a scandalised maiden aunt, looks like one, knees drawn up to his chest and glaring.

"Awww, don't be a sore loser," Victoria says. "Not everyone can win at gay chicken." Her sweet bright smile only deepens Pete's glare.

"It was _cheating_ -"

"Fuck you, it was not," William says. "It's not my fault that you couldn't take it."

"I wasn't expecting it, and it was still fucking cheating -"

"You have a phone," Gabe says, "call someone who cares."

-

"Patrick, these assholes are having a party and I think you need to come over and kick their asses for m- ow, hey, give my fucking phone back! Give it the fuck back right now!"

-

"Look at Stumpy," Pete says fondly, looking over. Patrick is staring Mike down, his sleeves rolled up and pushed back, hat crooked on his head, jaw set. Mike lays down a card with great deliberation, and they both lean in, fierce, watching the next turn of the cards with narrowed eyes and quivering readiness.

"What the fuck is that," Gabe asks. "Two-man patience?"

"Snap," Pete says, lips curving, watching. "Snap is serious business, man, you better believe it." Watching them play, there's something unguarded, stifled, soft in his expression, but the slant of his mouth is sharp and rueful and mocking at once.

Gabe's too drunk for this shit, and nowhere near drunk enough. "Dude," he says. "Hey, look at me."

Pete blinks, licks his lips. The shadow's gone like it was never there at all, smoothed over with blandness, except for the way his eyes dart and skitter lizard-like under their lids, shifty, when Gabe's trying to look him in the eye and to have a fucking moment or something here.

"Wentz," he says, and Pete just smiles at him like he doesn't know what the hell Gabe's even talking about. "P – fuck it." He swoops down and presses his mouth against Pete's, chaste, closed-lipped. He is so fucking short, it practically gives Gabe a crick in the neck.

"Hey, don't forget, I'm taken," Pete says, smiling, when he pulls back. "You don't want to bring on that mother of all bitchfights, dude, take it from me. My girl is badass."

"I could take her. She's a little thing, and I totally fight dirty. Hair-pulling all the way. All's fair in love and war, right?"

Behind them, there's an almighty crash and thud, a roar, and the snap cards go flying across the floor. Mike's clenched fists puncture the air as he chants _victory! Victory!_ , while Nate beats a drumroll against the table's edge in counterpoint.

-

"Okay," Sisky says finally. "Snap. _Snap_. Come on, that's just sad."

"Fuck you, snap is a man's game," Mike says, grinning a little.

"Sad. Sad and pathetic."

Chiz and Victoria nod their heads in unison, realise it, grin at each other.

"Well, what the fuck do you want to play, then?"

"Taboo," Pete suggests.

Ryland scoffs loudly, and beside him, Alex is sadly shaking his head back and forth.

"Now _that's_ a pussy's game," Gabe says, just to see the scowl break out on Pete's face, see it mirrored on Patrick's, quick as lightening. It's kind of adorable and a lot fucked-up.

"Enough of this kid's stuff, seriously," William says, eyes sparkling, slanting. Gabe loves that look, because it means good times, it always does. "Kings," he says, and everybody starts to smirk, except for Butcher, who bristles and twitches like he wants to throw himself bodily across the fridge, barring the way.

"Andy," William says quellingly.

"But-"

"Let it go," Ryland counsels soulfully. "Let it go. It's not good to be too attached to earthly things."

-

Butcher lets go. Kind of. Or, really, Chiz is forced to hold him down while Ryland wags a long finger reprovingly at him, and Sisky, Nate and Alex mount a lightning raid on the fridge, storming through the kitchenette and returning laden down with the shitty cheap beer, the _swill_ , that TAI – Gabe loves them, he does, but this is a truth that cannot be denied - drink like fish bent on self-lobotomy.

"Right," Victoria says, clever fingers shuffling through the cards, "right." She places a bottle of beer ceremoniously in the centre of the floor (everyone has to move hastily out of the way; space is at a premium, because the lounge is really, terribly cramped, and not made to hold twelve people, short and small as some of them are). She spreads the cards out in a swept circle around the bottle, then sits back, beaming.

"Alright," Ryland says, beaming like a slightly cracked master of ceremonies. "Okay, we're good to go." His gaze sweeps round them all, considering, then fixes on Mike. "You first, Carden. We'll go round clockwise from there."

Mike flips a card; it's a black six of clubs, and he whoops, setting his beer down on the floor. Ryland watches everyone with a beady eye, and makes sure that they take six slugs.

Then there's a black three, a red two, a King, a black four, a red eight ("Fuck," Patrick says, taking eight hasty swallows. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck,"), another black three.

"That's a good start," Pete says approvingly, and comes up with a Queen, which means a chain reaction of questions.

"Oh, fuck," Chiz mutters. "I'm not drunk enough for this."

"Fuck you, okay. Chiz, dude." Pete's smirking as he pours a measure of beer into the cup in the centre, that's never a good sign. "If you were a chick, would you let me titty-fuck you?"

Gabe wasn't expecting _that_ , but that's still pretty awesome. "What the actual fuck?"

Chiz's mouthful of beer arcs through the air in a graceful parabola. Butcher chokes, snorts, slaps Pete on the back.

"He's _three_ , you sick –" William starts automatically. "Wait, you're grossing out Chiz? That's cool, go ahead, be my guest."

"What?" Chiz says. "You'll defend Sisky's virtue, but not mine?"

"You have no virtue," Butcher says solemnly.

"Fuck you all," Sisky says. "I lost my virtue in the ninth grade."

"Are you going to answer the fucking question?"

Chiz takes a deep breath. "No, Wentz. No, if I was a chick, I would not let you titty-fuck me."

"If you were a chick, you might _like_ it," Mike muses. Alex looks disturbingly thoughtful.

"Eeergk."

"Okay," Ryland says, resuming his role as master of the revels. "Chiz, your turn, pour some beer in, and let's have less comments from the peanut gallery, people. This is supposed to be rapid-fire."

"Um. Patrick, how do you put up with this dude 24-7?"

"Earbuds, separate buses, and friendship bracelets. Um, Alex, would you cook for us if I asked you nicely?"

"Absolutely, if you paid me. Sisky, ninth grade, really?"

"Believe it. Victoria, what color are your panties?"

"Black, and they're the hottest thing you're never going to see." (Cheers as she tips her bottle into the cup). "Ryland, who was your childhood hero?"

"Captain Planet, no mocking of the great man in my hearing. _William_ ," he says, sliding into Guy Ripley's plummy, affected tones. "William, who was _your_ childhood hero?"

"Pete Wentz." William laughs around the neck of his beer, eyes slanting shut. "Fuck, that's only half a lie. A quarter, maybe. Um. Gabe, you want to hijack this bus and head for Tijuana?"

"When don't I want to go to Tijuana?" Gabe asks the ceiling. "When don't I want to lead a glorious mutiny for freedom?"

William smirks at him, eyes slitting nearly shut as he takes a drink.

"Butcher," Gabe continues, sitting up, pouring. "Are you wearing underwear?"

"Fuck, no. Nate, what's your biggest turn on in bed?"

Even Nate's ears turn scarlet, as he tries to stutter out an answer; ends up bent over and laughing so hard that Chiz pounds him on the back in concern, and Ryland pushes the brimming cup along the floor towards him, smiling.

-

Patrick draws a nine of spades, and offers up "Prawn?"

"What the fuck?" Pete says, laughing. "… porn."

"Corn."

"Born."

"Um, fuck, um. Torn?"

"Scorn," William says, right by Gabe's ear.

Trying to carry on a rhyme with William's arms slung around his neck, hanging from his back, leaning forward to whisper in his ear, rocking slightly, is really fucking difficult.

"Don't foul my game," Gabe says, frowning.

"Oh, come on, you fuck up and what? You have to drink again? Total hardship," William scoffs, still too close, laughing a little under his breath.

"Pete'll cast aspersions on my rhyming skills."

"So? Tell him he's short, that always shuts him up."

"You're so fucking wasted," Gabe says, but he doesn't try to push him away.

-

"I think," Nate says, blinking owlishly. "I think, I think we're out of beer."

-

Gabe stands before the fridge, gazing upon its glories, its many-bottled munificence (he really shouldn't mix his drinks like that, fuck), and trying to decide. Coors, or Sam Adams? Budweiser? It's tough, it really is.

"You're letting all the cold out, dick," William says, resting his chin on Gabe's shoulder; he startles.

"- The fuck? I didn't even hear you come in."

"Butcher thinks you need a chaperon around the fridge," William tells him, eyes huge and innocent. "He was going to make Chiz do it, but I volunteered." He drops into a whisper. " _I don't think he trusts you._ "

"Yeah, no shit," Gabe agrees. "Bill, Natural Light, seriously? That shit'll turn you blind."

"Fuck you," William says equitably. "It's cheap. If we stopped doing all the stuff that would turn us blind, what joy would be left in our lives?"

"Mmm, whatever," Gabe says, flapping a hand at him. "Help me decide."

William doesn't say anything to that, just stands there, smiling. "Hey, baby," he says, and Gabe barks out a surprised laugh. Then, of course, it's _on_ , and he whirls around, leans in – William doesn't pull away – kisses him lightly, teasingly.

William makes a small pleased noise in the back of his throat, fuck him and his flair for dramatics, Gabe is totally not losing this round. He retaliates by introducing tongue into the equation, just a hint, and when William doesn't move, just presses closer, he deepens it, and for a brief moment, a few minutes maybe, less, more, it's really fucking hard to focus on anything but kissing back, shallow and constant.

William's faintly sloppy in his enthusiasm, the bitter taste of beer layered over tequila, and handsy; when his hands start to slide up under Gabe's shirt, Gabe pauses – for breath, not in defeat, a crucial distinction – and says: "Dude, you're supposed to be pulling away."

"I'm not chicken," William says, eyes wide and limpid, "not if you're not." The corner of his mouth curves in a way that says _Mexico_ , face flushed and lips red in a way that's familiar-strange knotted up together. His mouth is half-open in laughter, his breath hot against Gabe's ear.

"Fuck it," Gabe says. "No, I'm not."

The tiny kitchenette, door half-open and the sounds of the ongoing game coming through from the back lounge, this is going to be printed on his memory in smudged and brilliant technicolour. He can hear them, a thick blur of noise, Pete's voice rising above the din, whooping.

And then he forgets about everyone but William in particular, William's mouth opening under his and hey, wow, there's some real kissing going on here, wet and deep, and then it's just – It's suddenly _insane_ , his fingers winding through William's half-damp hair, like he wants nothing more than to fucking _bury_ his tongue down his throat, and Bill, Bill starts fucking _moaning_ , hands everywhere, insinuating -

("Shh," Gabe says, desperate, one eye on the half-open door).

\- hands on his _ass_ , his own hands finding and spreading on William's hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows of his hipbones, fingers splayed across the back of his pelvis. William rocks against him, and he's hard, they're both hard, and for a second Gabe tries not to move against him, but fuck it, fuck that, William's hands on his ass press him closer, and then they're just grinding together through their jeans in small frantic waves, a broken hitching rhythm, desperate, biting back sound.

-

"- Oh, fuck," Mike says, standing silhouetted in the doorway. Behind him, Alex and Butcher attempt to peer over his shoulders, meerkat-like. "Get a bunk, for the love of god. We're not playing Seven Minutes In Heaven, you assholes, wrong game."


End file.
